


Lacy is a Badass

by Galaxy_Rider



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, Gotta love torture scenes, Hurt/Comfort, Jamison Fawkes - Freeform, OC, Other, its not that bad but if you're especially squeamish then idk, mako rutledge - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 04:25:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10779534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galaxy_Rider/pseuds/Galaxy_Rider
Summary: I just wanted Lacy to suffer, but it got longer that I wanted...





	Lacy is a Badass

**Author's Note:**

> It's late and I just want this to get posted

Why do i keep writing torture scenes wtf

The knife dragged its way through Lacy’s skin, parting it and leaving a trail of new blood in its wake. It oozed slowly out, mapping new paths over the old, dried ones. Lacy was good at telling time even when they weren’t near a clock; a soldier’s routine would do that to you, but they had lost track of the number of days they had been held.

  
They knew their captors weren’t Talon; the instruments used were too crude, and the facilities obviously not well-funded. But Talon or no, Lacy wouldn’t give them what they wanted. Which wasn’t clear in the first place. Something about something hidden, but other than that Lacy was unsure.

  
The knife cut deeper, and involuntarily Lacy shuddered and tried to pull away. But, tied with their hands above their head, they could only get so far, and the blade followed.

  
“Hey now,” the voice of their torturer came to them, in a thick Boston accent. The knife dug deeper into the flesh directly above Lacy’s ribcage, and they shuddered again. “Just tell us where it is, and we’ll letcha go.”

  
Lacy managed to stay silent for a moment, before a twist of the knife brought a whimper from them. As long as they didn't actually know what their captors wanted, they couldn’t give them what they wanted. The knife hurt, as did the rest of their body, but they would be damned if they would give these common asshats anything.

  
But the knife blade dug still deeper into their flesh, and Lacy was sure that if he went much further it would hit bone. They drooped, letting their chin hit their chest. Likely seeing it as a sign of imminent victory, the captor withdrew the blade from Lacy’s side, letting more blood spill from the wound.

  
“Now, you’ll tell me where the treasure is.” The man’s voice was hard to understand with his accent, and the fact that Lacy was starting to lose consciousness. Lifting their head, they looked into their captor’s eyes.

  
“ _Je parle pas Englais_ ,” they growled, “ _Je comprande pas_.” They didn’t think their captor would recognize their Italian accent.

They let their head drop again.  
Blood dripped onto the rough concrete of the floor, gathering into a fairly sizable pool. Patches of it were already dried. Lacy wondered, not for the first time, if anyone was coming to get them. Surely Jamie would be looking, at least. Dragging Roadhog along as well.

  
Then the knife was there again, burrowing itself into the skin, then the muscles of Lacy’s right forearm. The pain make them try to jerk away, but that only drove the knife deeper into them. Thrashing, Lacy faintly heard the laughter of the captor, the fact that the laughter sounded far away scaring them much more than the fact that their captor was laughing at them.

  
But his breath, hot and putrid, was all to close. “Tell me where it is,” he ground out through his teeth. Lacy exhaled shakily, still trying to pull away, to do anything to make the pain lessen. But then they felt, and heard the knife scrape against the bone.

  
The pain of it made their eyes roll, but they still took a shaky breath, prepared to repeat their earlier statement. What language had they used? Lacy couldn’t remember for the life of them. They missed Jamie.

  
“ _J-Je ne parle..._ ” Lacy looked up at the captor, who had stopped laughing. “ _Non parlo inglese_.” It hurt to talk. It hurt more to breathe. Their arm ached, and they watched the captor’s face. It was angry.

  
“No English, huh?” He yanked the knife out of Lacy's forearm as he spoke, and they cried out. A steady gush of blood ran from the place the knife had been. It dripped thickly from Lacy's elbow onto the floor, into the spreading puddle.

  
“ _Non_ ,” Lacy managed through the pain, feeling themselves failing. “ _Hindi ako nagsasalita ng ingles_.” They didn't know what language they were speaking anymore. The language of their captor was also a mystery.

  
Lacy's head fell to their chest. “Then why the hell am I keeping you around?” Their captor was getting frustrated. He hadn't seemed to have noticed the language switches, but Lacy was too out of it to appreciate their small victory.

  
He took a step back, running a hand through his hair, loosely holding the knife handle as he wiped his bloody hand on his jeans. “It'll be like shooting fuckin’ fish in a barrel if they find me.”

  
Lacy's head lolled awkwardly to one side, watching the door creak open behind him, but not really registering anything. The pool of blood at their feet spread slowly across the floor. They didn't understand the idiom “shooting fish in a barrel”.

  
A loud, metallic creaking cut through the muttering of the captor, making him turn. “Will?” His voice was strained. “That you? I toldya I could handle this on my own.” He pushed his hand through his hair again, fingers tightening around the holy of the knife. “I can do this; it's our only option. We don't gotta choice.”

  
Lacy's organic eye fell closed, the other only half open. Apathetically, they watched the door open further, their captor watching it sheepishly. Their arm hurt more than the rest of them, which was saying something. Pain was another thing being a soldier got you used to, but Lacy had never been tortured; at least not this much.

The pool of blood loomed dark and shiny below their boots, ready to swallow them.

 

Their captor glanced back at them when they groaned, his eyebrows turning down. “Useless fucking bitch,” he hissed, white knuckles on the handle of the knife. Striding back, he raised the knife above his head. Lacy’s other eye fell closed.

  
But there was something in his way. A huge hand carelessly knocked the knife out of his hand. It clattered onto the concrete floor across the room.

  
The captor only got a glimpse of something huge towering over him, barely had a chance to hear the rasping breathing above him, before the same hand clamped around his head.

  
He struggled, but the hand just clamped harder on him, squeezing. Feet leaving the ground, he felt the crushing pressure of the monster’s hand on his skull. There was no way that a human could be this big, have this much strength.

  
He felt something in him crack, and began to thrash wildly. God, where was Will? God? _Will_? He couldn't see, couldn't breathe. Hands flew to the arm gripping his head and struck wildly, to no effect.

  
There was a crunch of bone, a squelch of brain and blood, and a skittering of spasming feet on the concrete. The hands on Roadhog’s arm fluttered for a brief moment before falling limp.

  
He tossed the body behind him with a thump and a splat. Flicking the gore off his fingers, he saw the familiar shape of Junkrat blur past him on his way to Lacy. Roadhog produced a roll of gauze with his clean hand, so as not to contaminate it too much, and handed it to Junkrat.

  
Then he moved to stand in the doorway, trusting Jamison not to mess shit up when Lacy was in danger. _Well_ , he thought, _that's not a good idea_. One eye kept on Junkrat’s back, the other watching the hall outside.

 

“Oi!” The voice was familiar, Lacy realized, but the language was still unknown. Their eyes flickered, and they tried to flex their arm, only to have pain shoot through it. God fuck it, they were going to have to postpone the fusion reactor work if they bled out much more.

  
A pair of soot-covered hands fiddled with the bindings around Lacy's wrists. Their left arm dropped heavily to their side, almost dragging the rest of them down with it. Jamie was more careful with their right one, gently holding their wrist stable as he released it, then drawing it towards himself.

“Possum.” Jamie was speaking _English_. “Y’alright?”

  
But before Lacy could even try to mentally translate a response, he cut himself off, hunching over to wrap a obscene amount of gauze around Lacy's forearm. “Nah, stupid question,” he hissed.

  
Swaying on their feet, Lacy nevertheless felt quite a bit better. Their legs were mostly untouched; the knife wounds were shallow and uncommon. But blood loss had made their head spin, and it wasn't helping the mental translating of Jamie's English. 

  
Which was coming faster and faster. Fortunately though, he had stopped wrapping their forearm in gauze and started in on their torso. “Goddamit, possum, we lost ya in that maze an’ I almost had a fuckin’ heart attack,” he muttered, crouching just out of the pool of Lacy's blood. “If Roadie hadn't been jus’ in time--” Cutting himself off, Jamie shuddered.

  
As Lacy processed his words, the reality of the situation began to sink in. Compartmentalizing was natural as breathing; another thing the army drilled into them. But Lacy was suffering from blood loss, slight dehydration, and the constant stream of adrenaline was starting to take its toll as it wore off.

  
They had almost died. Sure, it was pretty common in their line of work, but shit. Death meant never tinkering again. No more eating in the siding hall with their friends. Say “ciao” to chatting with Olive at odd hours. Empanadas would go uneaten; bubble tea would go unfinished. Jamie would go to sleep and wake up alone. Death was fucked up, Lacy realized.

  
“Jamie.” His head snapped towards them at the sound of his name, eyes wide and nervous. Soot smeared all over his face, but under it he was so young looking. _And I'm only 2 years older_ , Lacy thought. They held each other's gaze for a moment, neither of them saying anything.

  
He had finished wrapping their torso in gauze. Lacy tried to speak again, breaking the fragile silence. “Jamie, I-” It wouldn't be that hard to say, even in front of Mako, if they would just tell him. “I'm glad you came for me.” _Dammit_. “I'll be alright.” _Double dammit_.

In an attempt to say it nonverbally, they set their arms around his neck, glad they were alive to feel his skin under theirs. It felt a little melodramatic, but they closed their inorganic eye to look at him unfiltered.

  
He looked down at them, eyes still wide, hands flitting along the bandages on their torso. “Ya coulda died,” he muttered, leaning in closer.

  
Lacy pulled him tighter to them. The movement hurt their arm, but they had almost gotten used to it. “Possum,” he continued, “we’re gonna go home, yeah?”

  
“Please,” Lacy whispered. The adrenaline was truly fading now, leaving their body weak and shaking slightly. “I'm sorry I got separated,” they added unhappily  

  
Burying their face into Jamie's shoulder, they inhaled the now familiar smell of gunpowder and dirt. In turn, he pressed his nose into their hair. “C’mon, possum, y’know it’s not yer fault.”

  
In one uncharacteristically smooth motion, and to Lacy's complete surprise, Jamie swept their legs out from under them and picked them up. A wave of dizziness threatened to overwhelm Lacy at the sudden motion, but they held it together long enough to protest.

  
“I weigh almost as much as you do!”

  
To which Jamie only laughed, levity returned. Mako glanced at them, not seeming phased at all.

  
“Olive sent cookies,” he stated, not really to anyone in particular.

  
“Thank you,” Lacy replied, but he waved them off sheepishly with one massive, blood soaked hand.

  
He took point down the hall; Jamie trailing behind. Lacy looked up at his face, and the urge to tell him was stronger now.

  
“ _Ti amo, Jamie,_ ” they said, unable to say it in a language that he would be able to understand. It would be out in the open then, whether he took it or left it.

  
“Wassat, possum?” He asked, looking down at them with his usual wild grin. Lacy wanted to kiss it.

  
“I'm glad you can carry me,” they answered, head falling back against his shoulder. Laughing, he adjusted them into a more comfortable position.

  
“Glad I got the chance to.”

**Author's Note:**

> The ending is bad but I wanted to just finish this fucking thing


End file.
